


You're Gonna See the Things that I See

by supras



Series: 1 to 10 [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Harry is a photography student who waits tables and writes songs, M/M, Zayn only knows what he doesn't want, slight dystopia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-21
Updated: 2014-11-21
Packaged: 2018-02-25 11:47:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2620616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supras/pseuds/supras
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a society where nearly everything is based upon physical appearance, Harry is a 6 who uses his charm to compensate and Zayn is a rare 10 who doesn’t conform to the unspoken rules.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're Gonna See the Things that I See

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bigbootymalik](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigbootymalik/gifts).



> The prompts: 
> 
> The one where Harry is a 6 and Zayn is a 10- so like Harry doesn't think he stands a chance with Zayn  
> -/-  
> Louis gets Zayn a job with Harry as the waiter
> 
> I hope you don't mind that I took the whole numbers thing literally! I thought this would be a bit of a different take, so I hope you like it, bigbootymalik! 
> 
> Massive thank you to Dani for beta-ing this for me! x 
> 
> Title from Clouds.

“Thank you, have a great night,” Harry says with as much cheerfulness as he can muster just after ten when he’s been on his feet for hours, flashing a warm smile at the last of the cafe’s patrons as he holds the door for them as they exit.

They return his smile with nods of their heads and murmurs of “good bye,” and he grins until the door is firmly closed behind them.

He heaves a sigh then, flips the lock on the door and turns to lean heavily against it. For the first time since he arrived at four, The Muse is blissfully empty. The quiet of it rattles around his brain, the only sounds those of his coworkers as they begin closing up for the night. Now that the last of their customers are gone, Sam’s putting chairs up on the tables that have already been wiped down, Jesy is getting out the vacuum, and Michael is swooping in to bus the last table.

Harry pushes himself off the door and unties his waist apron, tossing it onto one of the armchairs on the cafe side before going to help Sam.

“Thought they’d never leave,” Sam says as Harry approaches, shaking his head.

Harry murmurs his agreement and they lapse into companionable silence as they work. The sooner everything is finished, the sooner they can leave, and Harry has a mountain of books waiting for him at home.

Soon the last of the dishes are being pushed through the washer, the coffee machines are clean, and they’re all trooping through the kitchen to the little staff room at the back of the building. The staff room is empty, save for Niall, one of their managers who’d also been the closing barista at the coffee counter. He’s sitting at the little table and looking at his phone, tongue poking out at the corner of his mouth.

“Everything alright, Ni?” Harry asks and he lifts his coat from its place in the long row of hooks along the far wall.

“Yeah, except Ash’s just gone and quit and there’s not anyone to take his place tomorrow night,” Niall sighs, tapping away on his phone.

Harry scrunches his nose. He’d never much liked Ashton, who was always so loud and brash and a bit of an arsehole. As a 7, Ashton’d felt the whole job was beneath him and made sure everyone around him knew it. Harry’s not sure how he hadn’t ended up fired in the two months he’d worked there.

“Good riddance, honestly,” Jesy snorts. She shrugs into her coat, un-tucking her long hair from beneath the collar. “Is there really not anyone to come in?”

Niall shakes his head.

“All of you lot will be here, and Ben and Maeve are still on Holiday, and everyone else has plans or whatever,” he explains and slumps back in his chair, rubbing tiredly at his eyes.

“I can help if you like?” Harry offers tentatively, hoping Niall says no, because if Harry’s helping that means he’s not able to participate in the night’s activities.

Niall lowers his hands and gives him a level look.

“Tomorrow’s Thursday. Even if we were down three waiters I wouldn’t ask you to help on open mic night.”

Harry hums quietly to himself, a few bars of the song he’d played last week that Niall had liked so much.

“Exactly.”

Niall sighs again and struggles to his feet, leaning gingerly on his bad leg.

“I’ll figure something out. Maybe Louis knows someone else who needs a job?” he adds hopefully.

“As if, mate,” Sam says, popping up behind Harry and adjusting his scarf. “All of Louis’ mates are like, 8s and 9s.”

“Hey!” Harry says indignantly, lips pursing around the word.

“‘Cept you, mate,” Sam revises and reaches out to fluff Harry’s hair with his fingers. “But we all know you’re basically a 9 anyway.”

Except Harry isn’t. He’s a 6, though a solid one at that, with his bright eyes and dimples making him above the average 5. He has lovehandles and he’s lanky, and if he stares at himself long in the mirror, he thinks he looks rather frog-like. But he’s cheeky, and over the years he’s learnt how to use his charm to his advantage, gaining him friends above his rank. Like Louis.

Louis is a 9. All sharp cheekbones and a compact body, hair that looks great on him no matter how he styles it. Like most other 9s, he’s an actor who models on the side, covering the movie screens and billboards of London. He and Harry had met when he’d popped into the cafe on his way to a shoot, a morning when Harry was manning the coffee counter because their opening barista had called out sick. In a characteristic moment of clumsiness, Harry had upended Louis’ latte on his jacket, but Louis had found his sincere horror and apologies endearing and they’ve been friends ever since.

Louis tends to view the place as a second home now, and if he runs into anyone looking for work, he always points them to the perpetually short handed restaurant and bookstore. The last to have been sent along was Maeve, a friend of one of Louis’ little sisters who had moved to London for uni last September. Niall takes them all in with enthusiasm and open arms, always happy for the help.

“I’ll ask him,” Harry promises, pulling his phone out of his coat pocket as Niall leads the charge to the front so they can all go home. Niall locks the door behind them and they part ways, Niall and Sam going right as Harry goes left. He fires off a text to Louis as he walks towards the Tube station.

\- _hey lou. you don’t happen to know anyone who needs a job who can start like, tomorrow, do you?_   

Harry replaces his phone and adjusts his scarf so it’s tighter around his neck, only to hunker over against the cold with his hands in his pockets.

He pulls it out again when he exits the Tube station near his flat thirty minutes later, fingers fumbling.

 _sort of_ , Louis’ sent back. _what time does niall need him?_

\- _six thirty to twelve for dinner. can you let me know for sure he’s coming though?_

\- _yeah. give me twenty minutes._

Harry’s key sticks in the lock of the door of his building and he’s on the verge of phoning Liam when he it finally catches just right and disengages. Hands and toes numb from cold and cursing himself for not wearing thicker socks, he bolts up the three flight of stairs to his floor. Luckily the door of his flat comes open easily.

The lounge is bathed in light despite it being just gone one in the morning, and Liam’s doing press ups in the middle of the floor, coffee table pushed back against the sofa.

“Can’t sleep?” Harry asks, quirking an eyebrow as he kicks his boots off near the door.

Liam shakes his head, counting in quiet pants each time he raises himself up on his arms.

“97...98....99...100.”

He allows his arms to give way and collapses on his chest, starfished across the rug.

Harry crouches down beside him and runs a hand over Liam’s sweaty hair, fingers coming to rest at the nape of his neck.

“Same things?”

Liam nods into the floor and a heavy silence settles over them as Harry resumes his petting, listening to Liam’s shallow breathing.

“It was a little girl. She was seven and on the top floor. The stairs collapsed and we couldn’t get the ladder to her in time,” Liam says on an exhale, voice thin and trembling.

“Bed, c’mon,” Harry murmurs.

He tugs on Liam’s arm until Liam rolls onto his back and sits up. He’s ashen, tears now mingling with the sweat on his cheeks, and Harry wonders not for the first time why Liam is still a firefighter. Sweet Liam with his heart of gold, who takes it so so personally when he can’t save everyone. He’s a 7, could be doing anything he wanted really. But it’s a conversation they’ve had many times before - the ones he can save make it worth it in the end.

Liam allows Harry to help him up and guide him to his bedroom, settle him into bed with a kiss to his forehead. Harry takes Liam’s mobile when Liam offers it to him and puts it out of reach on the nightstand.

“Get some sleep,” Harry says and then he’s flicking the lights off to leave Liam with only his thoughts.

Harry traipses back through the flat to turn the rest of the lights off and then retires to his own room, pulling out his mobile when it buzzes in his pocket.

- _zayn will be there. i’ve told him you’d be the one with the hair and the scarf and to find you when he arrives._

Harry sighs in relief, sends a quick you’re the best mate, thanks!  and climbs into bed himself.

 

\--

 

Thursdays are Harry’s favourite day of the week, by far. He has his black and white digital photography class first thing in the morning, followed by a processing class and in the evening it’s the cafe’s weekly open mic night. He runs the event and also participates every week he can. Of all the open mics in the city, it’s a rather popular one too, and the restaurant is always packed from the time it begins until after it ends.

He arrives at the restaurant at six, guitar and camera cases in hand. There are a handful of people he recognises already even though sign-ups don’t start until seven, with the first person starting to play at quarter after. He waves hello to Sarah who’s seated in the chair between the coffee bar and the bookstore on his way to the employee lounge to drop his things off. He carefully hangs his camera on a hook, hanging his coat over top of it and sets his guitar in the corner against the wall, content they won’t be disturbed. The audio equipment is kept in a small cupboard off of the kitchen and he hauls out the speakers, stands and various other gear in several trips, carefully shuffling behind the cooks. He’s made the mistake of stepping too close before, ending up with a face full of hot pasta.

Harry sets to setting everything up with practiced ease, nimble fingers plugging wires into the appropriate places and screwing the speakers onto the stands.

He’s crouched down next to the battered upright piano adjusting a microphone stand when he hears someone clear his throat behind him, loud in the sudden hush that has come over the dining room.

“Are you Harry?”

The voice is soft as velvet, and not one Harry recognizes so - thank god the guy Louis was sending over is here.

Harry looks up to greet the owner of the voice, and promptly stares at the man above him.

This can’t be the person Louis said was coming. There’s no way _Zayn Malik_ is here to work.

He’s a 10, it’s so painfully obvious from the curve of his lips, the bottom one worried between his teeth, to the sharpness of his cheekbones and the smoothness of his tan skin. His face is framed by thick black hair, swept across his forehead and curling around his ears. It hits Harry like a punch to the gut that he’s startlingly beautiful, absolutely the most beautiful person he’s ever seen. Harry’s not ever met a 10 before, most people haven’t as they’re so rare - and now one is standing before him in the Muse. He shouldn’t be here, he’s out of place in the restaurant. He should be on the side of a building somewhere, a photograph that’s fifty feet tall so people can appreciate his eyelashes.

“I am,” Harry replies and quickly gets to his feet, jaw snapping shut from where it’s been hanging open in bewilderment. In his haste he brains himself on the end of the boom stand. Way to go, Haz, he thinks and swallows hard.

“Are you lost? Do you need directions somewhere?” he asks and almost immediately regrets it when the hesitance in the man’s eyes fades, walls thrown up.

“I’m Zayn,” he says, “Louis sent me for the job.”

Harry decides as soon as he has a moment, he’s going to text Louis what the fuck is this a joke.

But for now he schools his face into what he hopes it calm, never able to trust his features to portray what he wants them to.

“Great! Pleased to meet you. I’m Harry,” he says carefully and offers a hand.

Zayn takes it, skin warm and handshake firm.

“Have you ever waited tables before?” Harry asks and beckons him to follow him to the kitchen.

Zayn nods, then says a quiet, “yes” when he realises Harry is determinedly not looking at him. “When I was a teenager back home.”

Before he’d grown into himself most likely, Harry muses, but he makes a noise of affirmation in response and pushes through the swinging door 

The kitchen is a madhouse of activity, but Raymond, the cook closest to the door, looks up when it opens. He promptly drops the saute pan he’s holding, eyes wide and following their movement as Harry leads Zayn to the lounge. Everyone else turns in surprise at the noise, only to stop everything they’re doing to watch their progression through the room. 

“This is the lounge,” Harry says unceremoniously when they enter the empty room. “You can hang your coat on one of the hooks there and grab an apron. There’ll be a few pens and a notepad inside. I presume you can still do restaurant shorthand?”

Zayn nods again, shrugs out of his coat and picks up an apron to tie around his waist.

“I can, but is there anything specific I need to know?” he inquires, wrapping the strings around himself and tying a careful bow. Harry watches his hands move in perplexed wonder.

“Special tonight is the caprese grilled cheese,” Harry says. “You’ll be in the smallest section, only five tables, so it won’t be too bad. Take your orders, give them to Kyla, she’s the one with the red hair. Everything else is basic. Keep glasses filled, smile. If you don’t know something, feel free to ask one of the others. Just tell them you’re new and one of Louis’ mates.”

Zayn nods along as Harry speaks, listening intently. He’s just opening his mouth to respond when Niall comes bursting into the small room.

“Harry, Jesy said there was a 10 here - Oh. Oh god. I am so sorry,” he finishes hastily when he catches notice of Zayn who winces openly. Harry looks at him curiously but doesn’t comment on it.

“Zayn, this is Niall, the manager,” he says instead. “I’ve got to finish setting up for the open mic, but he’ll show you the ropes. Right, Ni?”

Niall nods in agreement, quickly slipping into professional mode.

“C’mon, mate, let’s get this show on the road!” he says exuberantly with a wide grin.

Zayn follows, but not before he throws a betrayed look over his shoulder to Harry, who gives him a thumbs up.

Harry let’s the door close and stays standing in the middle of the room, willing his breath to even out as he struggles to dig his mobile out of the pocket of his skinny jeans.

\- _what the fuck louis he’s a TEN?_

_\- leave off it styles._

It takes him a few long moments before he feels composed enough to head back out into the dining room, still reeling from meeting Zayn and imagining the contrast of his skin against the stark white sheets of his bed.

When he enters the main area of the restaurant he most certainly does not look for Zayn, but there he is standing next to Jesy as she takes orders at table seven. Of the patrons seated before them, two are openly staring whilst the other looks determinedly at Jesy as she speaks. Most of the patrons in the cafe are staring, or trying not to, or pretending they aren’t.

It hits Harry suddenly that it’s unsettling, his stomach twisting and bile rising in his throat. Zayn is a person, not some animal escaped from the zoo.

He bites down hard on his lower lip and goes back to finishing up the equipment.

Soon everything is ready and he’s stepping up to the mic, clipboard in his hands.

“Welcome to the Muse’s open mic night. My name is Harry and I’m going to be your host for this evening, hello.” he says with a wave, and most everyone waves and returns the hello. “As many of you know, the first twenty-five people on this list will perform one song each. If you don’t make it onto the list, you’ll remain on it for next week! Who’s ready?”

The clipboard is passed around the room and Harry sits on the stool behind the mic, watching as it passes from hand to hand. It finally makes its way back into his own hands, and he’s surprised to only see thirty names tonight. It’s not the most they’ve ever had, but it’s not a bad showing.

“Alright, Miss Sarah, looks like you’re up first!”

He moves out of the way for her to come up and take a seat at the piano before moving back in to help adjust the microphone. She smiles in thanks and then she’s off, announcing the song she’s playing above the opening chords.

And so it goes, on and on down the list of those who have signed up, a mix of covers and originals. At one point Harry slips away for a moment to retrieve his camera and he’s glad he does because the next girl is a little twelve year old thing who’s never played in front of people before. He asks her and her mum if it’s okay if he takes photographs, and they oblige when he offers to make them copies. By the time she’s finished her cover of a Gabrielle Aplin song, her voice having grown stronger with each note, he’s gotten the progression in pictures and is pleased with how they look so far on the tiny screen of the camera.

Periodically, he finds his gaze straying to Zayn. Jesy’s left him to himself now and it looks like he’s holding his own, flitting back and forth between the tables and expertly carrying trays of plates. It surprises him how natural he looks, in the zone despite the staring and never having worked here before. Usually it takes several weeks of training before the newbies are on their own and competent.

When they’re two thirds of the way through the list, Harry steps up to the microphone again, plugging in his guitar as he goes.

“Thought I’d take a turn,” he jokes as he raises the mic stand.

He strums a few chords, still undecided on which song to play. He’d done Where Do Broken Hearts Go the previous week, to Niall’s delight, but he doesn’t want to do it again.

“How about a new one?” he asks himself out loud, but the mic picks it up and someone in the room whistles.

Harry nods once and takes a step back, picking out the opening riff of a song he’d finished only a few days before. He watches his fingers as they move over the strings, and keeps his head down when he steps back up to the microphone.

“I’m like a crow on a wire, you’re the shining distraction that makes me fly,” he croons and lets his eyes drift closed. He’s not sure of the lyrics yet, tries to picture them on the lined paper of his journal, amongst ink blots and strike throughs.

The last person he’d dated had been an 8, a friend of his sister’s from uni who was studying law. Maybe Harry shouldn’t had slept with him only hours after they’d met and maybe he’d fallen too hard too fast. It was still hard to wrap his head around sometimes, that feeling of intensity in the pit of his stomach that made him nauseated and exhilarated at the same time.

It had, of course, ended badly, when Harry had found him with another man in the loo of the club they’d arrived to together.

He’d vowed then to stick closer to his own rank, and he vows now as he turns to the chorus, not to let Zayn get to him. If anyone is out of his league, by miles, it’s Zayn.

“And I knew that you’d turn it on for everyone you met, but I don’t regret falling for your fool’s gold,” Harry sings and opens his eyes, comfortable enough in the song to look around and try to gauge the reaction.

Most of the room is absorbed in their dinner conversations, though the group there for the open mic are all listening and smiling.

But it’s the figure at the back, near the kitchen door that makes his heart stutter.

It’s Zayn, standing stock still and slack jawed, eyes laser focused on Harry as he sings.

Startled, Harry meets his gaze and Zayn holds it through the bridge and the end of the song. His eyes are a remarkable shade of hazel, dark copper at the pupil, fading out to green and Harry can see everything. He can see the frustration and pain, underlined with anger and tinged with wonder. It bowls him over and grounds him

It’s Harry who looks away first, hands shaking from the intensity of the song and Zayn both.

“Thanks everyone,” he says slowly when the applause starts to fade. “Up next is Jerry.”

He fumbles with the clasps on his guitar case, fingers trembling too badly for him to get them open so he can return the guitar to its proper home.

“That was incredible, Harry,” a quiet voice says from somewhere above and it’s a repeat of earlier - Harry looking up to find a timid Zayn standing beside him, hands shoved into the pockets of his black jeans.

“Thanks. I-I’m glad you… liked it,” Harry finishes lamely, still crouched on the floor next to his guitar case. He raises up awkwardly, scrubs a hand along his jaw. “It’s fairly new so it’s good to have some feedback.”

“It’s lovely,” Zayn says sincerely, lips sliding into the first real smile Harry’s seen from him tonight. “Are you going to be around until closing time?”

Harry frowns, brows drawing together at the unexpected question

“Yeah?”

“Wait for me?”

It’s so quiet that harry can barely hear it, but he sees Zayns lips move, the hopeful but hesitant look in his eyes and all he can do is nod.

 

\--

 

The event wraps up just before closing time, and Harry chats with several of the people who had participated as he breaks down the equipment to return it to storage. They swap stories of relationships and uni experiences, songs they’d wish they’d written as the restaurant closes down around them, and when the last pair leave the Muse is ready to be put to bed for the night.

“Great job tonight, Haz,” Niall says and claps him on the shoulder with a wide grin. “Really liked that one.”

“Thanks, mate,” Harry murmurs appreciatively, but he’s already looking around for Zayn, who seems to have slipped from the empty room.

“Zed did well tonight, despite the whole… thing. I think he’ll work out nicely as long as he’d like to stay.”

Niall gives Harry a knowing look, complete with a wry smile. He was there, with the last boyfriend, has seen how Harry’s been looking at Zayn all night - so different from how everyone else has been

But Harry knows he doesn’t stand a chance, and is willing to take whatever friendship Zayn is willing to give.

“Be careful mate.”

Harry nods and together they head for the staff lounge to collect their things. Zayn is already there, bundled up in a thick black peacoat and maroon scarf. He’s waiting.

“Did it go alright?” Harry asks him politely, pulling on his own coat before adjusting the strap of his camera bag over his shoulder. His guitar can stay here tonight - he doesn’t know what Zayn’s plans are, but lugging a guitar around London in the middle of the night in winter isn’t something Harry is keen on.

Zayn makes a small noise of affirmation and smiles, but offers nothing more, until they’re outside on the sidewalk in front of the cafe and Niall is bidding them goodnight.

“Fancy a cuppa? I don’t live far from here,” Zayn says and Harry finds himself unable to do anything but agree.

Zayn sets a brisk pace west and Harry follows, both of them hunkered over in their coats, breath puffs of steam under the streetlights.

“So how do you know Louis?” Harry asks after a few minutes of walking in silence.

“We worked together once a few years ago,” Zayn supplies, eyes focused straight ahead even as Harry turns to look at him. “Then kept in touch and saw each other at events and such.”

“Have you worked with him again lately?”

Zayn’s pace slows ever so slightly, just enough for Harry to notice and have to shorten his normal long stride to match.

“I’m… not in the industry, anymore.”

He ducks his head then and burrows further into his coat, and Harry doesn’t press even in his confusion. How can Zayn not be a model, with the way his face, well, looks. He’s a perfect 10, something that’s so incredibly rare that the few other 10s in the world are all in the modelling or film industries.

They lapse into silence as Zayn slows again, this time in front of a smart looking stone rowhouse, and pushes through the wrought iron gate. He holds it open for Harry and then hops up the steps to unlock the front door. He steps back to allow Harry to enter the dim foyer first and then quickly closes the door against the cold. A lamp is flicked on, bathing everything in warm golden light  and Harry’s eyes adjust to see the room he’s standing in. It’s decidedly cozy, with dark wood floors and pale yellow walls, opening into a lounge filled with leather furniture and bookcases.

Zayn helps Harry out of his coat to hang it and his camera bag on the rack just inside the door, then leads him down the hall into the kitchen, all without saying a word.

“So I’m kind of wondering why you invited me over. Not that I didn’t want to come or anything,” Harry hurriedly adds, watching from across the marble island as Zayn fills the kettle at the sink. “But you just don’t -”

“Seem like the type?” Zayn finishes. He replaces the kettle on its stand and presses the switch.

Harry nods.

“You seemed nice, and I thought it might be nice to get to know someone at work for once,” Zayn admits, now retrieving mugs from the closest cabinet. “Plus, that song.”

“The one I sang?”

“Yeah. I… Do you feel like that?”

“I did, at one point, not so much anymore. Do you?”

Zayn looks up from where he’s fussing with a couple of tea bags to meet Harry’s heavy gaze.

“Yeah. I do.”

 

\--

 

They settle into a routine after that first night at Zayn’s in which they fall asleep on the sofa, heads at opposite ends but sharing a blanket, a rerun of Nevermind the Buzzcocks on the television. Zayn works a couple of nights a week at the Muse, not always Thursdays, and more often than not, they hang out after. Sometimes they go back to Zayn’s, other times out to pints with Niall and the lads from work, or to Harry’s where Liam shares his popcorn and they all watch superhero movies.

Liam takes to Zayn quickly after the first time he comes over, shocked by his beauty but quickly coming to enjoy his company. Harry already knew Zayn was intelligent, eloquent in the way he spoke, and kind, but it shocks him how seamlessly he fits in. When Louis is in town, he comes over as well, and Niall too on occasion, the five of them spilling over the sofas and chairs of whoever’s flat they’re in. It’s difficult to go out, Zayn drawing the attention of everyone wherever he goes, and it’s not like at the Muse where people just stare. At pubs and clubs, the more daring people approach him, wanting to say they’ve bedded a 10. Zayn turns down every single one, and always turns in early.

Instead of stamping down any feelings he might have, Harry only becomes more infatuated with Zayn with every passing day. They text constantly when they’re not together, conversations about their pasts or silly jokes, but Harry knows Zayn’s walls are still up, knows that they’re friends and nothing more.

Liam’s at the firestation when Harry and Zayn arrive at the flat, just coming off a long Friday night shift at two in the morning. It’s been a while since it’s been just the two of them, and it makes it harder for Harry to focus on what Zayn says instead of the curve of his mouth. But now he’s so tired all he wants is to fall face first into his bed and not leave it for several days.

Zayn seems to have the same idea, ushering him into his bedroom and offering a steadying hand as Harry struggles out of his boots and skin tight jeans. It didn’t take them long to get to this place, where sharing a bed seemed natural, and Harry rather enjoys it, always sleeps better when he’s curled around another person. He strips off his shirt and falls onto the bed, only moving under the covers with a whine when Zayn tells him to budge up.

They’re settling in, chests moving with shallow breaths, Zayn curled into Harry’s side, when Zayn speaks.

“Do you want to know why I quit modeling?”

Harry does, has always wondered in the four months since Zayn showed up at the Muse, but he’s never asked, knowing it was something so incredibly personal he shouldn’t.

“Only if you’d like to tell me,” he responds and turns his head so he can see Zayn’s face in the cold February moonlight streaming through the window.

“I didn’t feel like a person anymore.”

It’s just above a whisper, Zayn’s voice shaking from it, and Harry lifts a hand to card his fingers through Zayn’s hair, urging him to continue.

“I was just the 10, the pretty one. It was like I had no other worth and it started to feel like it was true.”

Zayn continues in the same shaky mumble, pressing his cold nose into Harry’s neck.

“Louis got me out. Saw me at an event one day and told me I needed to stop, helped me find a lawyer to break my contracts and of course got me the job at the Muse.”

Harry feels the dampness of Zayn’s tears against his skin and shifts so he can wrap his arms around the other man.

“You are so much more than that, Zed. You’re incredibly kind and smart, and I am so glad Louis sent you to the Muse and that I get to call you my friend,” he says fiercely, rubbing a soothing hand up Zayn’s back beneath his t-shirt.

His chest aches as he buries his face in Zayn’s hair, breathing in deep. He can’t imagine. He’s always been the opposite, just above average and usually never enough to win more than a passing glance.

And Zayn is so much more than a pretty face, and it kills him that his self worth is tied to only that in this society they live in.

“I hate how the world works,” Zayn says through a sniffle. “That I feel this way about myself  and you don’t know how beautiful you are.”

Harry snorts darkly. He isn’t beautiful at all, not like Zayn, or Louis, or Niall even.

“You are,” Zayn insists and turns so he’s on his stomach, propped up on his elbows and peering at Harry intently from below sticky eyelashes.

“I’m not. My eyes are too far apart and my nose is too big, and my top lip is thin -”

Zayn ducks his head to press his mouth over Harry’s own, lips closed and chaste. Harry’s stomach drops, sparks shooting down his spine, He’s imagined kissing Zayn a hundred times, and here Zayn is kissing him.

He can’t-.

Harry pulls back, startling Zayn’s eyes open again and it’s like a swift punch to the stomach when Zayn’s face immediately falls, eyes clouding over in despair.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have I-.”

“But why did you kiss me,” Harry asks, catching Zayn’s arm when Zayn tries to scramble away. “You’re so beautiful and so far out of my league it’s mad. I’m just me.”

Zayn chokes on a sad laugh, shaking his head and leaning down to kiss Harry again, a soft peck, then another that leave harry breathless and staring up at him in wonder.

“You are the most beautiful person I’ve ever met. Not just because of what you look like, and I do think you’re lovely to look at, but because of what’s in here.”

Zayn pauses to lay his palm on the sparrow on Harry’s chest, above his heart.

“You see everyone for who they are and not what they look like, including me. You’re perfect.”

Harry merely blinks at him.

Perfect.

That’s not a word that he’s ever been called, but if the incredible man beside him in his bed, who’s running his tongue over his bottom lip and looking at him with eyes full of adoration and desire - if that what’s he thinks, then maybe he can try to believe it, too.

 


End file.
